


i dont wanna talk about what it means

by laloose (Vacant_Ghostgirl)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Begging, Bilingual Character(s), Closeted Character, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Latinx teen rick is the Best rick, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Sloppy Makeouts, ford is mentioned, i mean its them so... its kinda fucked up lmao, is it really an au if there's no actual canon bc its a crossover??, only a lil tho, stanchez, they're 18 yr old gutterpunks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vacant_Ghostgirl/pseuds/laloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wouldn’t make me wait this long if you knew I had weed on me,” Stan mumbled finally, resting his forehead against the worn wood, staring at where the panelling was rotting away. There was a long pause. </p><p>“Do you have weed?” He heard, and broke into a grin. The door moved open slightly, and he could see through the crack a bloodshot eye squinting out into the brightness of the streetlight that was just beginning to shine into the house. </p><p>“Maybe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry abt... all of this i am so sorry :'D
> 
> i stole the title from the waxahatchee song 'La Loose' which is also where my pseudo comes from. we're going full circle today kids. the song is a pretty good stanchez song actually. other good waxahatchee songs for this pairing are Air and Be Good but i'm getting ahead of myself :0
> 
> special shoutout to ozo-blog for this one. i just liked the idea of them just being directionless garbage teens figuring shit out :^) 
> 
> this is my first time writing anything remotely explicit so sorry if it sucks lmao
> 
> um also: this wasn't beta'd so there may be mistakes or weird wording, especially with the spanish. i'll probably write a few more of these though so if you want to beta later chapters let me know lmao i could use it. the other thing is, i use the word queer as a slur in here so careful i guess.
> 
> o one last thing! the song stan says in the beginning is whatever by elliott smith.

When the Stanmobile broke down for the third time, Stan rode his bike to Rick’s house instead.

It was unusually cold for a day in November— the temperature had dropped significantly from the week before, and where people had sat on their porches to while the day away in the earlier summer months, the front stoops of Camden now sat abandoned and lonely on the run-down block. The neighborhood was duller in the winter, and Stan almost liked it a little better for it— he liked to ride his bike alone. The trees were bare and the wind made a hollow noise in his ears when he stood from his bike seat on the pedals and whipped through the dilapidated suburbs.

“They come here alone, they leave in twos,” He sang crookedly, mumbling to himself, pedaling away in the grey dusk of winter down the empty street. “‘Cept for you and me— we just came to use.” Cold air filled his lungs, and even with the smog of New Jersey, it felt clean, like a burn in his lungs that was correct. Something better than before. “If you’re all done like you’d— said you’d be, what are you doing. Hanging out with me.”

The Sanchez house was falling apart. It stood like a monument to foreclosure resistance at the end of the street, paint chipping off the wood and old tires littering the front yard that was by some stretch of the imagination, once a fresh lawn of green grass. There was a dog chained up in the front yard, and when Stan dumped his bike by the front steps, he leaned down an inch as he passed the animal just so it could sniff his hand.

“Hey, boy,” He greeted, and the dog’s cold wet nose nudged at his fingers before he hopped up the porch that was falling apart.

When he reached the front door, he didn’t bother to ring the bell. As long as he had known the house and all its temperaments, he had known the bell was busted.

Instead, he pounded on the wood panelling with his fist.

“Sanchez!” He called, and took a step back to try to look through the side window, past the curtain.

No response.

He pounded again.

“Rick!!” The house creaked in the winter breeze that blew through the structure. Then, faintly, but definite from the other side of the door:

“Y’know the password, Pines?” He huffed.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” A short laugh echoed from inside the house.

“T-that ain’t it.”

“I gotta be home by 8 to help Ford move some stuff for a project he’s workin’ on.” A moment passed. The noises from the other side of the door had stopped, and had been replaced by a distant siren wailing into the dusk from down the other end of the road. “Rick?”

There was nothing.

“C’mon, open the door,” Stan whined, hunching over further in his huge red jacket. He could feel the wind blowing through the ripped sleeves, past where he’d tried to mend it with duct tape after ripping it in a fight at school. Somewhere on the block, a dog started barking, low and hurting, echoing down the street. Stan shook his head. He could feel his ears burning from the cold.

“You wouldn’t make me wait this long if you knew I had weed on me,” he mumbled finally, resting his forehead against the worn wood, staring at where the panelling was rotting away. There was a long pause.

“Do you have weed?” Stan heard, and broke into a grin. The door moved open slightly, and he could see through the crack a bloodshot eye squinting out into the brightness of the streetlight that was just beginning to shine into the house.

“Maybe.”

The voice on the other side mumbled something unintelligible and slammed the door. Stan waited as he heard the sliding metal of the padlock, the clicks of the different deadbolts and chains before the door swung open.

Rick stood in the doorway wearing the most amount of jackets and sweaters Stan had ever seen someone wear in his life. His immediate reaction was to burst out laughing, but Rick coughed deep and hard, and Stan felt something drop in his gut for a moment.

“You sick?” He asked, trying his best to mask the worry in his voice. Rick shook his head, leaning up against the doorway. That was the thing about him— he always looked like he was sizing things up. Even with the sweaters, and the cough, he still made Stan feel nervous, like he had something to prove.

“I was finishing off the 8th before you came over,” Rick said. “There isn’t any- there’s no fucking insulation in t-this place— close the door, you’ll let the cold in. Ha, ha. I’m serious,” he said, and Stan shuffled inside the crumbling house and closed the door tight behind him.

It isn’t that the Sanchez house was dirty, it was just full of so much… stuff. It piled up everywhere. Stan struggled to step over piles of books and old bicycle parts to follow Rick over to the stairs, who turned around to watch Stan struggle through the room, forging a path, coughing all the while. When Stan finally maneuvered his way to the bottom of the stairs, he could really see how red Rick’s eyes were, and the weed started to burn a hole in his pocket. Rick raised his eyebrows at him, and cracked a grin.

“Oye, ¿quién es ese?” Someone yelled through the house. Stan jumped a little, but Rick just grumbled, and turned his back to where the voice originated from with an annoyed look on his face.

“Es sólo una amigo mamá! V-Vamos a mi habitación,” He yelled back, and didn’t wait another second before beginning his climb up the stairwell. Stan followed.

“She can be such a bitch when it gets c-cold like this. I almost like her better when she gets all strung out n’ shit because then at least she doesn’t b-bother me,” Rick grumbled. “You can go down the hall, I’ll be right there— I g-gotta check on Noa.” The floorboards creaked as he jimmied the door open to the first room on the landing. Stan walked down the hall alone slowly, cupping his hands to breathe warm air into them and bumping his hip up against the door of Rick’s room to open it, knowing that the knob had broken long ago.

The bedroom was even worse than the downstairs. Everywhere strewn about were different parts to things that Rick claimed to be halfway inventing, or prototypes for machines that Stan had never remotely seen anything like. There was a window in the corner with towels taped to the cracks to preserve the nonexistent heat within the house, and the dull white winter daylight was cast on to an old mattress that had a variety of sleeping bags tossed messily on it. Stan tried to imagine Rick curled up in the center of the bed, mountains of sweaters and blankets in the dead cold of the middle of the night, trying to sleep just to escape the frost. He was having a hard time with the mental image. The teen was nothing if not seemingly completely indifferent to his surroundings.

He didn’t hear the door close behind him, and it made him jump.

“So,” Rick said, and Stan snapped back to earth, hands still shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“So,” he echoed, and Rick snorted, climbing over the junk in the room to pull out a bong from behind a cardboard box by the mattress. “I just used my last paper,” He explained, and held out his hand for the bag. The cold stung Stan’s hand like a bite when he took them out of his jacket to hand the gram to the other boy.

“It’s a meat locker in here,” He said before he could stop himself, and Rick laughed with no humor in his voice at all, sitting down cross legged on the floor as he set the grinder down with the weed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “This’ll warm you right up. I put the ‘l-lectric heater on too, so it should be better in a couple minutes.”

“Yer sister ok?” Stan asked, briefly thinking of Shermy back in his own home. Rick shrugged noncommittally.

“She’s wrapped up in every damn blanket in the house. F-figure she’s got the other two heaters in there, so crib death will have to—,” he stopped to cough, “—wait til’ next week when I drop her on her head.” Stan frowned.

“You sure you ain’t sick?”

Rick paused packing the weed into the bong for a second. His eyes flicked up to the other boy, a stare completely glazed over through a haze of smoke that already seemed apparent in the room from the 8th he’d smoked earlier. He smiled in a way that made Stan feel like something hot was crawling up his chest. It made him fidget.

“You scared’a kissin’ a queer with an illness, Pines?” Rick said bluntly, and Stan felt his whole face turn red.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ prick,” He said in a tone that sounded way braver and more annoyed than he actually was. He turned to glare out the window at the dead, grey street below, and prayed for the blush he knew was spreading across his face to go away. He wasn’t a queer and he wasn’t scared of anything. If he was telling the truth, mostly he didn’t like to think about his interactions with the other boy too critically. He liked to get high and he liked to mess around— he didn’t see what the big deal was. That was it. That’s what he told himself.

That was really, really it.

“Don’t pout, I was just teasin’ ya, ok,” Rick said, bringing him back to himself, and held out the bong and the lighter to where Stan sat on the floor across from him. “Here, I’m already stoned. You can have the first toke, alright?”

“I’m not—,” Stan started when he turned back to face him.

“A queer, I know, I get it. Jesus Christ. Just smoke the fuckin’ thing so I can too.” After a moment of internal debate, Stan took the bong from his hands. Flicking the lighter took a few tries because the tips of his fingers hurt from the cold, but when the weed lit, he took a strong, deep breath, and held it in his lungs for what felt like ages. Stan breathed out the smoke through his nose, a long exhale, and sat back against the mattress on the floor. His lungs burned, but he didn’t want to cough and get shit from the other boy.

  
He coughed anyway.

“C-cute,” Rick stuttered, and laughed. “First time doin’ this, Pines?”

“Bite me,” Stan said, and coughed again.

“Later. Hand me that shit.”

 

.

 

 

Time stretched out. Rick leaned over to put on the radio.

“Fuck,” he said, and closed his eyes, sighing heavily as it buzzed to life. “This song is the shit. I am s-so fuckin’…glad they are playing this shit right now.” He paused. “You good?”

There was no reply. Rick squinted across the room with one eye. “Stan.”

“You always gotta play this punk shit, huh,” He heard. Good. He closed his eyes again and he could tell that Stan was smiling when he spoke too. “You ain’t ever playin’ the good shit when I come over here.”

“This is the good shit,” Rick mumbled, and felt around next to him for the bong. He could hear the TV on downstairs, and he frowned. “C’mere, Pines.”

Stan moved over to his side without a word. He could be a real pain in the ass sober, Rick thought, but get a little weed in him and he stopped thinking so hard about every little damn thing. Rick figured it was good for him. Plus, it was fun for Rick anyways.

“Thanks, Sanchez. You’re a real charmer,” Stan said, rolling his eyes and putting his head up against the wall. Oh. He’d been saying all of it out loud.

“Wanna try something,” Rick drawled, and Stan lifted his head again. When Rick saw his face a little better, he laughed.

“Shit! Your eyes are s-s-so fucking bloodshot. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Haven’t, really,” Stan said with a shrug. “Ford’s been working on this damn model—“

“Don’t t-talk to me about your, your brother right now. I’m serious. Gimme the lighter, it’s right next to you.”

Stan handed it to Rick, who held his mouth up to the bong and lit the bowl, breathing in long and deep, watching the white smoke climb up through the glass. When he pulled it away from his face, he didn’t breathe out.

Stan blinked slowly at him.

“You gonna let the hit go, or—,” He started, but Rick slid his hands up the sides of Stan’s face, and Stan felt his skin catch fire.

“Uh,” he mumbled. Rick looked positively wicked. He drew his face up closely, ghosting his lips over the other boy’s, and when Stan parted his lips in surprise, Rick opened his mouth to mirror the action, and breathed out slowly. Stan took a deep, shaky breath in, feeling the smoke fill his lungs. He breathed out through his nose, bringing his hands up to the ones that cradled his face and leaning in to finally close the negative space between them. The kiss was wet, and Rick tasted like the rolling papers he had no doubt been licking earlier. He ran his tongue over Stan’s swollen lower lip, and pulled away with a heavy breath.

“F-fuck,” Rick said, and his voice was like poison. There was a long, long pause.

Stan was on his lap in a moment that felt like slow motion, pressing hot, wet kisses down the side of the other boy’s neck lazily and running his hands up under all of the layers of sweaters. His hands were clammy and shaking, and his fingers ran up his ribcage in a haze.

“Por qué estás cachonda sólo cuando fumamos juntos,” Rick sighed, lolling his head to the side. He could feel Stan’s tongue on his pulse, and something sharp crept up his spine. He let out a whine, and Stan paused for a second. Then his mouth was gone. Rick turned his head to glare in protest, looking into the dark, red eyes of the other boy. The radio crackled in the corner.

“Your Mom is right downstairs,” Stan murmured, his stare cast to the side. Rick rolled his eyes.

“She’s g-got the TV on.” Not to mention she was probably passed out. It had been a while since they’d made their way up to his room. Rick was a little surprised she’d been conscious when Stan had shown up at the front door at all. “T-thought you weren’t scared’a anything?”

The challenge in the accusation was barely hidden. Stan leveled his eyes with the boy under him, and ground his hips down into Rick’s lap, who laughed nervously and thudded his head back against the wall behind him.

“Dios mío,” He said, raising his eyebrows, making the corners of Stan’s mouth twitch up, despite everything.

“You’re such an asshole,” He murmured, and locked their lips again, slowly and carefully. The weed was making his fingertips buzz and his head felt like it was floating away. Kissing Rick, feeling his tongue run across the roof of his mouth, everything sticky and cold all at once, Stan felt like he could do it forever. He was painfully hard in his jeans, and he could feel where he was grinding down the hardness that was growing beneath him as well. He knew it was fucked up, but the feeling that what he was doing was wrong almost made Rick’s mouth taste sweeter. That, and the papers he’d been rolling earlier. He always got the dumbest flavors.

“Y-you’re sure enjoying this for a not-queer, Stanely,” Rick said, smiling up against his lips and running his hands across where Stan’s thighs were against him. His pale fingers travelled in tighter, closer to Stan’s zipper on his jeans, and he could feel him shiver.

“Fuck you,” Stan said, but it came out as a pant, and when Rick’s hand finally found his way around the outline of Stan’s cock, Stan buried his face into the crook of the other boy’s neck. “Holy shit,” He mumbled, his lips brushing up against hot skin. He knew he sounded desperate, and he didn’t care. Rick wished that Stan would pull away from him just for a moment, only so he could see his pupils blown wide, hair messed up, biting at his swollen red lips just to keep from making any noise.

Stan didn’t do this. Instead, he ran his teeth up against Rick’s neck, and bit him right under his ear, his nose brushing up against the piercings that were there in the cartilage.

“F-f-fuck,” Rick stumbled, and squeezed his hands tight, causing Stan to make a noise that would make a nun blush.

“You gonna jerk me off or what, Sanchez?” He mumbled, in a tone that Rick speculated was half on its way to a beg.

“Depends,” Rick said lowly. “You gonna ask n-nice?” The other boy made a noise of annoyance, but Rick could feel his lips turn to a smile against his collarbone before Stan scraped his fingernails lightly down Rick’s ribcage. It was fucking torture. He let out a long, shuddering breath, and closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “We’ll see who asks nice.” His hands travelled lower until they were tight against bony hips, and at a glacial pace, he pulled the zipper of the jeans open, and slid the pants and briefs down Rick’s thighs before sliding his own pants down as well, freeing himself from his boxers. Even though the room was freezing, his skin was blazing to the touch.

“Stan.” He looked up. Rick was staring at him hungrily, swollen mouth twisted into a wiry grin under half-lidded bloodshot eyes. He leaned forwards, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, and kissed at the side of Stan’s face before breathing hotly into his ear. “You look n-nice when you get th-this wrecked, you know?” He jerked his wrist, and Stan hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. The friction was making him melt, and he couldn’t help twitching his hips up at the touch, putting his hand up to brace himself up against the wall. Rick licked at the shell of his ear, and Stan dug his nails into the other boy’s forearm through the layers of sweaters.

“‘M not—“ He started to gasp, but Rick moved his hand up slowly again, and Stan choked off the end of his sentence, grinding his teeth.

“Sure you aren't, Pines… you g-gonna c-come?”

Stan could feel sweat on the back of his neck, and he grunted in frustration, concentrating on the wall in front of him. He knew when he was being teased. Rick leaned forwards even more, jerking his hand in deliberate strokes, and nipped at Stan’s bottom lip. He was breathing heavy, and his mouth was wet up against Stan’s. When he spoke, he sounded close to the edge, but he was smug, and his voice was quiet.

“W-we’ll see who a-asks nice.” His hand slowed so that it was barely moving. There was a trainwreck happening in Stan’s mind. He didn’t know if he wanted to push the other boy up against the wall or punch him in the jaw. The moment was frozen. “That’s what you said, right?”

“Rick,” Stan said, but he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t know how he sounded. His skin was on fire. When Rick kissed him, it was white hot.

“Eres lindo,” He murmured, and his grin was wicked.

“Goddamnit,” Stan gasped. The hand had stopped completely. “Please. Please let me come. Christ. Please—“

Rick jerked his wrist hard, and Stan swore saw lights behind his eyes. His hips jerked up into the other boys hand one final time, come spilling over his pale fingers. “Fuck,” He hissed, his heart in his throat, and he heard Rick stumble over a swear before completely going over the edge.

The radio was just static now. The cold settled over the two of them again like a curse.

“You are,” Stan said, “The worst.”

Rick, despite his current appearance, had the self confidence to stifle a laugh. He was still out of breath, and the sweat cooling on his face was making him immediately shiver. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Pass me that t-shirt, this shit is m-making me freezing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Stan said lazily, but slid off Rick’s lap and grabbed the laundry he was pointing to. Stan wiped himself down before throwing the it at the other boy, who caught it and held it in front of him, deadpan.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You got no right to be grossed out.” He paused. “And your heater’s fucking broken. It’s still freezing in here.”

Rick shrugged noncommittally, tugging his jeans back on and buttoning them before pulling the sweaters back over his middle. “’S a pretty old piece of s-shit. I think it saw JFK get shot in the head.” He stopped, and tilted his head to where the radio had tuned back in, churning out more punk garbage. “There anymore weed in there?” He asked. Stan looked over to where the bong was on the floor, and shook his head.

“Nah, ’s just ash. Here, I’ll get it,” He mumbled, and grabbed the stash by the mattress, pulling the bowl out of the bong and leaning over to tap the ash out on the windowsill. When he pulled the weed out of the bag and started pulling the buds from the stem to put into the grinder, it was quiet. Stan figured he’d better ask what he’d been thinking about before he lost his nerve.

“Rick.” Rick turned his head.

“Yeah?”

“What did you…” His hands stopped, and he stared intently at the floor. “What did you say, when we were…” The sentence trailed off into the cold of the bedroom, and froze there.

  
It took him a moment, but slowly, a grin spread across Rick’s face. He looked at Stan in a way that made Stan feel very, very looked at, like the other boy was seeing something else in him that he had not learned or wanted to recognize yet. It made his palms sweat, and his hands fidgeted. He knew he was red, he could feel his ears burn.

“You look cute,” Rick said. Stan froze. When he whipped his head up to face Rick, he almost felt angry. Something in his chest felt warm and tight, but soaked in panic. It was different from when he was horny. It was sorta… nice.

“What,” He said. Rick laughed, short and loud.

“That’s what I said. D-Dumbass,” He cackled, and coughed hard. Stan was still staring. Through the thin walls of the room, he could hear Noa begin to fuss in her crib. A siren sounded outside, where the sky had turned dark. The radio had tuned out. The room seemed smaller.

“Don’t…don’t say stuff like that,” He managed, but Rick only laughed more.

“You want me to jerk you off b-but sayin’ ya look nice is off the table?” He asked, and Stan clenched his fists.

“You know that that’s—that’s different.” An image of his father flashed very suddenly through his mind, and anxiety gripped his muscles. Rick was still cracking up. When Stan spoke again, his voice was louder, and his tone was sharp. “Rick.” And then— “Cut it out.”

The house creaked. Rick stopped laughing.

“Yer serious,” He asked, and his voice was suddenly very tight. His eyes felt like they were boring into Stan’s head. He didn’t sound angry, but he looked annoyed. Stan leveled with him. His hands were still balled into fists. The silence was palpable, and it dragged out between them.

“Don’t you gotta be somewhere,” Rick said shortly.

Stan looked at him blankly, and then straightened up, turning to glance at the digital clock balanced on a pile of books by the mattress. 8:09.

“Shit,” He cursed, stumbling up from the floor and looking around the other side of the room for where he’d dropped his keys. When he turned around, Rick was standing by the door, holding up the chain with his forefinger, looking lazily up at the other boy.

“Thanks,” Stan mumbled, taking the carkeys. He couldn’t seem to look him in the eyes. All of this felt wrong.

“Yeah, ’s been a r-r-real rodeo,” Rick grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Stan wavered at the door, turning.

“Rick,” He started, but he didn’t know what to say after.

“Whatever.”

“You can keep the rest of the stash,” Stan tried.

“Hm. I was gonna.”

“I’m—“ Rick cut him off.

“G-goddamnit Pines, I fucking swear, if you tell me you’re not a goddam queer one m-more time, I’m gonna seriously—“

When Stan leaned forward against Rick, pressing their mouths together very suddenly, the other boy made a noise that Stan had never heard him make before, almost like a surprised squeak. Slowly, he stilled, and parted his lips, and Stan cradled the other boy’s face in his hands, deepening the kiss so that it was slow and sweet. It felt desperate and needy, but different than before. He wasn’t good with words. This seemed better. Like it meant something else. When Stan broke away and opened his eyes, Rick was looking at him oddly. He lowered his hands down to his sides, and looked pointedly down at his dirty sneakers. His hands were shaking. Rick was staring at them.

“Sorry,” He finished roughly. He wiped at his mouth, and turned his head away. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Please don’t be pissed, or whatever. I know I’m… I know I’m a fuckup. I’m sorry.”

  
Another streetlight twitched on outside, shining a new light through the room. Rick still hadn’t said anything. Stan was milliseconds away from walking out the door, regretting saying anything at all, he had just made it a million times worse—

Rick opened his mouth to talk. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“You’re not a fuckup.” Stan fliched. Rick huffed, and sighed. “You’re not a fuckup. Jesus. Don’t s-say that shit, ‘cause it’s not true.” He paused. “Christ, Stan. Look at me.”

Stan looked. Rick wasn’t quite smiling, but an expression more focused had taken over his features, his mouth twisted into almost a pitying grimace.

“It’s a-alright,” He said, and flinched, his stutter caught in his throat. Stan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Ok,” He said. Ok.

Ok.

Rick looked over the other boy’s shoulder and squinted, getting a good look at the clock. He whistled.

“Your brother’s gonna kick your ass,” He said, and like that, they were laughing, the idea of Ford fighting Stan and ever even standing a chance a ridiculous thing to imagine.

“He really— he’ll try. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stan said, maneuvering around the other boy the cross the threshold.

“Later, Pines,” Rick said, and without any warning, smacked Stan’s ass hard as he went out into the hall. Stan yelped, and his blush returned, but when he looked back, Rick had already started to walk across the room to where Stan had left the weed in the grinder. He was laughing.

“Later,” Stan said ruefully, rubbing his backside through his jeans, and even down the hall, through the stairwell, and biking past all the broken down Camden houses with the freezing wind whistling past his ears, he could still hear Rick’s laugh echoing in the back of his mind, all the way home in the dark.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should really just rename this fic, two garbage boys fuck around new jersey, smoking and cursing, it's winter, lmao
> 
> the waxahatchee songs for this chapter are bathtub and swan dive. if u know the song i put playing in L & K good for u!! its the los saylors version B) 
> 
> nothing rlly happens in this chapter, but i have a plan for the next chapter, and it should b longer and more eventful haha. also im not sure if im gonna keep the 4 chapter cap, might b longer. 
> 
> thank u so much for reading!! i love and appreciate all ur comments, they rlly make my day!!!

They were sitting behind the dugout smoking when Rick’s lighter stopped working.

“Goddamnit,” He said angrily, jerking his thumb against the metal with a look on his face like murder. The resounding empty sound seemed to get progressively more and more aggrivating to him, and Stan watched him struggle with his mouth quirked to the side, taking long drags from the cigarette he had already lit.

Click. Click.

“Fuck.”

“That thing's done,” He said with a shrug. “Just chuck it, it’s not gonna work.”

“N-not with that attitude, St-Stanley,” Rick mumbled around the fag in his mouth, and after a few more fruitless attempts, threw the busted lighter to the side. It landed in the grass out of the shade, and Rick glowered at it. For a moment, there was only silence. Cars passed on the street beyond the chain link fence.

“Why am I out here freezing my ass off out here if I can’t smoke?” Rick finally said, angrily shoving his hands under his armpits and squinting up at the bright winter sun.

It was an almost annoyingly clear day—not a cloud in the sky, but with a cold wind that when it blew, it went straight to your bones. Somewhere else in the school, Ford was sitting in a class that Stan was supposed to be in, looking in different intervals over at the empty desk that sat beside him and out the second floor window to the baseball field, expression vaguely worried. It wasn’t the first time they’d ditched class together and it wouldn’t be the last. Stan thought his teacher was probably a little relieved to see him missing, considering all she ever did was stare at him with a bizarre mixture of pity and annoyance while he not-so-subtly carved his name into the wood of his desk while class went on around him. He took another drag. When he spoke, smoke leaked out of his mouth into the cold, and dissipated into the air.

“If you’re so cold, go back to class,” He said, and Rick scowled.

“You—G-gimmee that.” Stan leaned forwards, and Rick lit his cigarette on the other boy’s. He took a deep breath in, and leaned back.

“Fuck,” Rick mumbled, sighing, and closed his eyes. “Alright. What do you gotta do today, Pines?”

He knew the answer, but the question was a formality. Stan tapped his head back against the concrete lightly. He rolled the cigarette around in his fingers.

“I really gotta go home and study,” He said quietly.

They laughed almost immediately.

“C’mon,” Rick said, and stood, wiping his hands on the back of his pants before he pulled the collar up on his jacket to face the cold breeze. “I don’t wanna hang out here anyway.”

 

 

.

 

 

By the time they reached L & K, Stan’s cheeks and ears were red from the cold, and Rick had gone through his second cigarette.

“I’m f-f-fucking starving,” He said, pushing the door open to the tiny corner store. At the sound of the bell ringing at the entrance, the cashier looked up from where he sat at the front register, regarded the two boys warily, nodded his head over to the left, and went back to the paper he had been reading. When Stan looked over at where the cashier had gestured, he found his own face staring back at him through a dirty screen. The security monitor.

“Pines.”

He turned. Rick had taken his hands out of his jacket to dig around in the front pocket of his jeans. When he pulled his hand back up and opened his fist, the two boys looked down at a wad of two crumpled ones, and sixty-four cents.

Stan snorted.

“F-fuck you,” Rick said automatically. “I don’t see you making any contributions to these f-funds.” The radio buzzed behind the counter.

_Me diste en el alma el golpe traidor, por lo que hiciste conmigo…_

“You kids gonna buy something?” The cashier asked without looking up.

Rick grumbled a few unidentifiable swears before making his way to the back of the store to grab a diet coke from the freezer. When he came back to the front counter, Stan had already placed a package of skittles by the register, and he was staring at the scratch tickets taped up in the plastic grid.

“You need one’a those,” He said with a smirk, and Rick elbowed him before handing the money over the counter, popping open the coke before he was even handed back the change.

“Shut up. At least I got two cents to rub together, you b-bum.” He pushed the door open to exit the store, the bell sounding out again. Stan followed, ripping the skittles open, watching Rick chug the soda from the glass bottle as they made their way across the street. He wiped his mouth and sniffed.

“Listen. What’re you doing this weekend? I was gonna see if I could get out to Philly, ‘cause there’s a show there I wanna see.”

Stan perked up. It had been a while since they had gotten out to the city for a night, but the times they did end up on the other side of the river were memories that Stan could only half recall, or memories he never stopped thinking about. ‘Going out to Philly’ with Rick meant going to a punk show, getting completely crossfaded, and trashing wherever they went for the rest of the night in the city. It was a drunken high mayhem, and it was beautiful.

When he thought about the weekend, though, he paused.

“Shit.”

“What?”

Stan rubbed the back of his neck warily, and frowned. “I wanna go, but my Dad’s makin’ me n’ Ford work on the house.”

“You let Ford hold tools?” Rick asked with a grin.

Stan shook his head. “I’d have to… y’know… ask him if I could go with…” He trailed off, and the second part of his sentence went unsaid, but it hung heavy in the air between them. Rick’s smile slowly dropped from his face as the second part of Stan’s response became clearer.

_He doesn’t want me going with you._

Stan looked away.

“Your dad doesn’t know about me,” Rick said haughtily, kicking a can off the side of the street. He looked over at Stan, face not quite annoyed, but not quite happy either. “The fuck does your dad know about me?”

The other boy shrugged, backpack rolling off his shoulder before he hitched it back up again. “He says he doesn’t like me hanging out with you.” They stopped at the corner to wait for the light. “Says you’re a bad influence.”

Rick’s eyes widened and he snorted hard in surprise, which was a mistake. Diet coke spurted from his nose like a faucet, dripping down his chin and on to his t-shirt. Rick’s hands flew to his face. The crosswalk blinked green while he leapt around on the sidewalk, hollering and cursing at the burning sensation that the carbonated drink was causing in his sinuses. Stan stood to the side of the display, laughing so that his sides ached, spilling skittles all over the cement.

“ _Maldita sea_!!” Rick howled. “Son of a bitch!”

“You are such a goddamn spaz,” Stan wheezed.

“A bad ‘nfluence?” The other boy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jean jacket. “Like you’re p-pure as the driven snow! What the fuck is this— after school special shit— I fuckin’, I see how it is, some _chicano_ rolls around the block to w-wreck havoc on the streets of New Jersey—,”

“I didn’t say it!” Stan said, “He said it! Fuck, don’t get your panties in a twist about it—“

“Like he’s some kinda the picture of a _good_ influence—“

“Rick.”

Rick stopped.

The crosswalk was counting down, now. Stan looked over to where the oncoming cars were stopped at the intersection, and huffed, annoyed. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

“It doesn’t matter, ok? I shouldn’a— I mean, he only said that because you hang out with me, and I hang out with… Ford. It isn’t about you.”

22\. 21. 20. Rick sniffed, and the coke burned in the back of his throat like a dull ache. He opened his mouth to speak, but came up short suddenly, and very slowly, leaned far over to his right, squinting over at a black truck that was waiting at the light behind Stan.

17\. 16.

“Hey,” He said. “Isn’t that Frankie Berardi’s p-piece a shit pickup?” He stopped. “Holy shit.”

Stan turned around and frowned. It took him a second before the Chevy caught his eye, and when he finally saw it, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Oh yeah,” he said, and paused. “You know that prick put Ford in a locker once? I told him to meet me behind the gym after school the next day and he brought 2 of his brothers with him. I had a shiner for weeks.” He glanced at the vehicle warily. “What kinda pussy brings his 2 brothers to fight one guy, y’know?”

They spent a moment regarding the truck, staring at the boy sitting behind the wheel lazily. The seconds passed slowly.

9\. 8. 7.

A grin like poison drew across Rick’s face. He tightened his grip on the glass bottle, eyes lighting up as an idea began to form in his head. It made Stan’s stomach drop. He knew what that look meant, and it wasn’t ever something good, but it was always something that was worth doing. His heart started racing.

Stan looked over his shoulder. “There’s some yards we can go through, but you gotta hop some fences,” He muttered. “I’m pretty sure he can’t see us from over there. He’s not lookin’.”

“This— t-this is gonna be beautiful, Stanley,” Rick said, and he sounded absolutely delighted.

“You don’t think he’ll get out to find us, huh?”

3\. 2.

Rick shrugged. “Not when it turns green. He can’t leave the car in the road. ’Sides—,” He smirked, “He ain’t ever gonna know it was us.”

The light at the intersection went from green to yellow.

“This is all assumin’ you’ll hit the right car,” Stan said. Rick raised his arm, and closed one brown eye to aim.

“I’ll hit it, Pines.”

All the lights in the intersection went red.

Frankie Berardi took his foot off the break.

When the traffic light blinked to green, Rick threw the glass bottle in a high arc into the air, and the two boys watched it go spinning into the line of cars that were just beginning to go forwards down the road, holding their breaths. The moment went on forever, just them at the intersection, staring at the bottle that was making a hollow whistling noise above the moving traffic. It descended like a personal deliverance on to the black Chevy, and the moment it hit the very top of the front of the truck, the sound of the glass shattering set the boys in motion like a firework going off. It was both piercing, and one of the most satisfying things Stan had ever heard.

He ran like he was already being chased. He could hear Rick’s uproarious laughter following him, the swerve of the Chevy in the intersection, the screech of the brakes and the honking of the people stuck behind the stopped vehicle, but he didn’t once turn around to look in case Frankie could see his face. He grabbed the top of the chain link fence and swung his legs over it into the dead grass below, using his weight for momentum. Rick was shrieking and whooping, and even as he sprinted through to the back of the house, he could hear the roar from the pickup’s window following him as he ran like something ominous and victorious all at the same time: “I’M GONNA FIND YOU, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!!”

They ran through four yards before they stopped.

“Did he— see us?” Stan wheezed, breathing hard with his hands on his knees. “Rick. Did— he see us?”

Rick was rolling on the grass like a madman, laughing and choking and breathing in huge huffs of air into his smoker’s lungs, all at once. “Did you—“ He tried, but it took him a second to catch his breath, and when he did, he only erupted into laughter all over again. “Did you SEE that? It was so— it was PERFECT, Pines. It was the most beautiful—the most magical—“

“I don’t think he saw us,” Stan said, and for the first time, allowed himself to grin. “He woulda said our names. He wouldn’t sounded so—“

“Desperate?” Rick finished.

When Stan started to laugh, it was a deep sound that started in his gut and worked its way up from a slow chuckle to a loud, full sound that echoed in the empty lot.

“Who's fucking yard is this?” He said, and they both lost it.

The house they’d snuck behind was falling apart, graffiti littered all over the sides of it. Rick was clutching his stomach.

“That motherfucker was so pissed—“

“Did you see him jump? When the bottle hit his car, he swerved— he fucking swerved in the road—“ They rolled in the grass in hysterics until their laughter died down to a dull giggle. Rick was staring up at the grey sky through the trees, his breath making hot puffs into the cold air. Someone yelled, in the distance, and then stopped. Things seemed still for a second. After a moment, Rick turned his head in the grass to stare at Stan. He almost looked like he was proud of what he was about to say.

“Your dad was right.”

Stan looked over at him.

“What?” The conversation seemed like it was ages ago, and it took him a second to remember what the other boy was talking about. Rick smiled, and something about it seemed… smug.

“I’m a bad influence.”

Stan rolled his eyes, and hit his arm into the gut of the other boy, who ‘oof’d and laughed again. “He had it comin’.”

“I’m corrupting your youth, S-stanley Pines. Y-your precious, precious youth—“

“Cut it out,” Stan said, rolling his head the other way. “I shouldn’a said anything. This ain’t a thing now, alright?” He could feel the frozen ground through his jeans in the grass, and he shivered.

All at once, Rick took Stan’s arm where it was laying on his stomach and pulled the other boy closer an inch, leaning his chin on Stan’s shoulder and breathing into his ear. His other hand was creeping dangerously close up Stan’s thigh, and where his fingers touched were white hot.

“I wanna be a bad, bad influence, Pines,” He said quietly, and Stan felt his face burn red in a second’s notice, heat running through his veins almost immediately. For the second time that day, he could feel the second stretching out, Rick’s hot breath in his ear, his lips cold.

Stan hit him again.

“Fuck!” Rick swore, but he was laughing like a hyena, and Stan’s face was still flushed when he sat up, his lips parted.

“You’re a dick,” He said flatly, and Rick looked like he was going to say something else until he was interrupted.

“HEY!” They both turned.

Someone was leaning out the window of the house they had taken for abandoned.

“What the fuck are you two doing on my lawn?” They hollered, and Rick jumped up.

“Su casa se ve como una mierda!” He shouted.

“What? Wh— I’m calling the—“

“Run,” Rick said, turning to the other boy with eyes bright, the beginning of another laugh stuck in the back of his throat. Even as Stan ran for the second time through the back lots of the streets, the image of Rick with with his arm in the air throwing the bottle towards the car still fresh in his mind— he could still feel the blush from before on his cheeks, burning the tips of his ears in the cold.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan is bisexual, there's a virus documentary ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all thought i forgot!! i didn't. i just finished my senior thesis film!! :'D  
> anyways guess what! everything in this chapter is setting up the next chapter. the song for this one is chinatown by girlpool!!  
> warnings in this chapter for mentions of child abuse but i think thats it!! sorry for the wait

     When Rick first came to their school, his acne was worse, and his accent was thicker, and he was always coming to homeroom with shiners and split lips, glaring at everyone from under a haircut that was so atrocious the sight of it came across as a near physical assault. He used to snarl at teachers when they yelled at him, and when he spoke and his stutter interrupted what he had been saying, he clenched his fists until his knuckles would turn white. He was a live wire of resentment and fear that manifested in a complex that was sometimes explosive. Stan had always figured he was getting the shit kicked out of him by some other kids in their class, until he met Rick’s Mom, who was at best high by 2pm, and Rick’s Mom’s boyfriend, who was at worst drunk by 3pm. No one was beating Rick up. No one at school, at least. He had this jacket with a bunch of safety pins in it, and Stan remembers when he filled it out less, when his shoulders were less broad, and his demeanor was duller. Something about him now was— it wasn’t _less_ angry. He had a lid on whatever he’d been wrestling when he’d transferred to Camden, but there was still something raw there, like stitches when you pick at them and pick at them and the wound gets angry and red, but it’s still closed up. Rick was like that: something gory that was slow to metastasize. Something not quite healing.

 

     “Stan. You on a trip to M-Mars, or what?”

 

     They were under the bleachers. He forgot what day it was. They spent so much time at school but not in class. Stan wondered where Ford was, or if he was wondering where Stan was.

 

     “Gimme that.” Rick’s arm slid into his line of vision, over to where his arm was on the other side of where the other boy was sitting. “Jesus and Mary, you smoked like the whole thing, you fuck.” When Rick peered over at him, he was smiling. “When is that piece of shit car of yours gonna be fixed, huh? We can’t hotbox the bleachers. I-I mean, I haven’t technically found a way to do that y-yet.”

 

     “Don’t talk shit about my car,” Stan mumbled, putting his forearm over his eyes to block the slats of light that shone in from above the metal bars. “I don’t see you with a car. We’re taking the train tomorrow, anyway.”

 

     Rick rolled his eyes. "Sure, if you ever get around to asking your old man if you can actually go."

 

     Stan remembers him sitting in the passenger seat of the Stanleymobile, hitting the car radio with the heel of his hand when it jammed, or him leaning out the window on an impossibly hot day. The air didn’t work in the car. It never had. He remembers the sweat dripping down his back and sticking to his cotton t-shirt. He remembers his dry mouth, chapped lips, leaning over the stick shift when his cheeks burned red.

 

     They hadn’t always been friends. Stan had tried to avoid being his friend. He had Ford; and for a very long time he was set in the decision that he would never need anyone else besides his twin. The two of them had been connected at the hip for a lifetime, so when people had the brevity to call Ford names, or to push him into lockers, or to give him split lips and angry looking bruises under his eyes, blossoming dark hues of purples and greens— Stan always got tied up in it. If Ford was the freak, Stan was the Brother of the Freak. It was a title he would never shy away from. They could say what they wanted to say and he didn’t care and he never would and when they were grown and old it wouldn’t matter, anyway. The names would go away. He wouldn’t.

 

     But it meant keeping his head down, and Rick— Rick, Before— didn’t understand this. Hadn’t learned to internalize everything yet.

 

     “Hey. Check it out.”

 

     Stan sat up.

 

     Across the field, two girls were tying up a large, hand painted sign to the fence in front of the school. One of them seemed to be saying something to the other that was making her laugh. When she turned her head, her curly hair was blown out of her face by the wind, and Stan recognized her.

 

     “That girl’s in my gym class,” he said.

 

     “Oh man!” Rick exclaimed, hitting Stan’s chest with the back of his hand. “W-Well look at that, Stanley! L-L-Looks like we came outside right at the right time—” His fingers were fidgeting, and his voice teetered on the edge of laughter. Stan knew what he was going to say, and he groaned and fell back down to lay on the grass before Rick continued, covering his eyes with his arm again to brace for the oncoming outburst. He’d read the sign well enough.

 

     “—B-Because _now_ we know when to buy our _homecoming dance tickets_.”

 

     “Jesus,” Stan said, because he knew the speech that was imminent.

 

     Rick turned to him with a gleeful expression, but his voice came out dripping with annoyance. He was still holding the roach, and when he spoke, he swung it around in the air wildly as he gesticulated.

 

     “God, what a f-f-fucking joke! Gather all these hormonal, awkward, nasty fucking children into a goddamn highschool gym all dressed up like it’s Barbie’s fuckin’ dreamhouse just to dance to whatever garbage radio execs have decided is going to be popular right now and then go fuck in cars in the parking lot. Like they’re not all waiting to go home and touch their fucking greasy faces.” He lit the joint and then leaned back on his hand, blowing the smoke into the slats of the bleachers. “I-it’s a goddamn circus, is what it is. Kids in tuxes and shit, walkin’ around, lying to each other about getting b-blowjobs. Oh yeah baby, nothing turns me on like seeing Debbie Esposito’s blackheads and retainer under the romantic fluorescent lighting of the basketball court with s-s-s-some streamers in it. R-really gets my dick hard.”

 

     Stan had heard this spiel twice, now. He thinks maybe something might have happened to Rick in the past at a school function, or something equally as fucking stupid to make him this bitter about an event this inconsequential. He wanted to leave school. He wanted Rick to stop talking about his dick.

 

     “Carla,” He said.

 

     Rick stopped.

 

    “What?”

 

    “That’s that girl— the one in my class.”

 

     Stan shifted his arm to look over the field again. When Carla leaned over to tie the ribbon to the fence, her skirt hiked up her thighs, and she laughed with her friend as she went to pull it down with one hand, holding the sign up with the other.

 

     He heard a snort, and when he turned to look at Rick, he’s staring at him with one eyebrow raised, and he’s wearing expression Stan has never considered even remotely close to safe, somewhere halfway between amused and extremely pissed off. It was a very Rick face to make.

 

     “Wow,” is what he said, but he doesn’t stop looking at Stan, and he brings the joint up to his mouth slowly, the very last hit of it sparking too close to his lips.

 

     “It’s not like that,” He said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looking down at the grass when he feels the tips of his ears burn red.

 

     “No, don’t mind me,” Rick said calmly, waving his hands towards the fence where the two girls are. “Forget Debbie Esposito. Clearly this is where it’s happening.” Smoke poured from his mouth as he spoke, and when Stan turned to watch, he caught himself staring at where it leaks out from between the other boy’s teeth.

 

     They’d become friends in the summer. For a long time, they didn’t talk about what they were doing. It started and then they just never stopped and then one day Stan woke up and suddenly there was another person walking the streets of New Jersey who knew Stan like he knew himself, and their name, for once, wasn’t another variation of Stan’s.

 

     “I know you don’t like him,” Is what he had said to Ford once after he’d come back from Rick’s house sometime in May, still coming down from a buzz and eating cracker jacks on the floor of their room. Ford had been building a model, but when Stan spoke, his hands went very, very still, and he paused.

 

     “It isn’t that,” Ford had said, so quiet that Stan had to strain to hear him.

 

     “I’m not stupid,” Stan started to argue, and Ford had pursed his lips.

 

     “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t talk to me like Dad.”

 

     It was a low blow. Stan had scoffed.

 

     “It’s not that I don’t like him,” Ford said for the second time. Stan had hickies littered down his neck. His Dad had made an offhand comment to him— something about a pregnant girl, a joke about safe sex. But he’d never talked to Ford about a girl.

 

    They’d talked a lot less, then.

 

     “It’s got nothing to do with him.” Ford had turned to face his brother from where he sat at the desk. “You’re not good at talking stuff through, is all.”

 

     Rick was still staring at him from under the bleachers.

 

     “What time is it,” Stan said.

 

     “Who cares,” Rick said, flicking the roach into the grass, eyes smoldering as he turned back to the other boy.

 

     They never did this at school. Stan was too paranoid. But his fingertips were vibrating from the high, and Rick slid his tongue into his mouth and bit at his lip until he bled, tasting like weed and smoke.

 

     “I don’t think we never do t-this here ‘cause you’re scared ‘a getting caught,” Rick said, his lips moving against Stan’s when he speaks, eyes heavy and dark. “I think you just don’t like the idea that the possibility of getting caught is a _thing_ for you.”

 

     Stan didn’t say anything. The time between when they were kissing and when they weren’t was overlapping, and he breathed out shakily, something that seemed to make Rick smile like he’d won.

 

     The bell rang.

 

     

 

 

 

 

     “Ford,” Stan said, facing the ceiling on the top bunk, “I need you to do me a favor.”

 

     It was Thursday.

 

     The noise Ford made on the bottom bunk confirmed a few things for Stan that he’d been worried about before he’d even bothered to ask his brother the favor in the first place. It was late in the evening, and it was raining, the kind of freezing rain that made you glad to be inside of a house that was almost warm, but not quite. Ford was doing eight different kinds of calculus homework, and Stan was staring at all of the markings he had ever made over the years in the paint above his bunk. Below, Ford made a sound like he was unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth while looking at something else. The rain made a hiss like white noise against their window, and the monotony of it was making a lazy loop sound throughout the room.

     

     “A favor?” Stan heard. He could tell that his brother was only half listening. He could picture his face perfectly, squinting down at a textbook that read like stereo instructions to the other boy, making perfect sense of something Stan had never even begun to try to comprehend. He was also positive that it was homework he was probably supposed to be doing as well. Ford chewed his lip, and he tapped his sixth finger against the page while he read. Stan could hear it at night sometimes, and it meant his brother was concentrating.

 

     “I’m thinking about going to the moon,” Stan said, just to test the waters. Ford hummed.

 

     “Oh,” he said. Stan rolled his eyes. When he leaned over to poke his head out the side of the top bunk, Ford didn’t look up at him. His glasses had slid all the way down his nose, and he had three different books open on his lap. Stan only recognized one of them. He squinted.

 

     “I need your help. Building the spacesuit,” He continued. Ford was chewing on the end of his pencil.

 

     “Hmm.”

 

     “Sixer. You’re not listening.”

 

     Ford looked up, but when he smiled, he looked tired. “You need help with the spacesuit, but not the rocket?” He said, which made Stan roll his eyes and snort. Ford looked back down at his homework. “I’m listening.”

 

     “It’s about this weekend,” Stan said slowly. Something like worry passed over Ford’s face for only a second before he finally looked up, careful to mask his reaction in his expression. He already knew what his brother was going to ask. It made a certain sense of nervousness settle in the pit of Stan’s stomach. His arm was starting to hurt from leaning over the bunk bed. Why were they this old in bunk beds?

 

     “You want to go out with…,” Ford started, and frowned before he started over. “I don’t know if I can cover for you. Dad really meant what he said last time, and I don’t know if he’ll even believe me anymore. Plus…”

 

     Stan knew what the plus was. Ford hated to lie.

 

     “It’s just for the night,” He said hurriedly. “I’d be back before he even noticed.”

 

     It didn’t seem like enough. It was a weird thing, to know how every person in his family felt about Rick. None of their reactions were exactly positive. Stan had had to hear from Ford on more than one occasion the effects that marijuana had on the adolescent brain, and he wasn’t looking to hear the whole speech again. Between Rick and Ford, it was complicated. They were day and night. Stan’s relationship with his brother was difficult to describe to other people. He had always chalked it up to the fact that no one could really grasp the twin bond. It was a consistent force of nature, ever present in his life, the backdrop to everything else. But there was a part of their relationship that changed minutely as they had gotten older together— a gnawing aspect of uncertainty that became more and more apparent as Ford grew into the smarter, more professional parts of himself, and Stan stared up at how he’d destroyed their bedroom ceiling with a jack knife. It was the cyst in their dynamic. Every once in a while, Stan felt as if he sort of needed a break from the cold of Ford’s shadow. It wasn’t something he resented. It was just something that made him tired. He loved Ford, and he would always love Ford, in the midnight swears, blood pact sort of bond that they shared. But Rick lived in that rift between them. Rick _was_ the break.

 

     Besides— it was the unspoken secret that everyone knew in the Pines household: Ford was the smart one. Ford was doing so well in school. Ford brought home trophies. All Stan ever brought home was bloody knuckles.

 

     “I’ll think about it,” Ford said finally. He turned back to his books, and then, as an afterthought, looked up again. “It’d be on a condition, though.”

 

     Stan shrugged and leaned his chin on his hand. “Yeah, alright. What is it?”

 

     Ford grinned. “You have to go with me to Philly in the next couple of weeks.”

 

     Of course. The Franklin Museum. It wasn’t Stan’s idea of a good time— mostly he just stood around while Ford went on and on about the exhibits— but he liked seeing his brother happy. He shrugged.

 

     “Alright. Deal.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

     Rick smelled like Cigarillos and a bad day at a factory. He was sitting in the back of the Bio classroom drawing something unspeakable on to the worn wood of the desk with a dull pencil, watching the teacher in the front struggle to set up the VCR when Stan collapsed in the chair next to him. It was Friday.

 

     “Pines,” Rick said, making a particularly deep stroke into the drawing. His eyes were unfocused, and when he turned his head to admire his work on the desk, it didn’t settle as easily as someone who would have turned their head sober. Someone flicked the lights off in the room as the bell rang. “Tell me y-you have good news.”

 

     “We watchin’ a movie?” Stan asked, looking around the classroom warily. A shush came from the desks in front, and he rolled his eyes. Rick snickered.

 

     “There tits in this movie?” He asked loudly, which earned him a particular glare from the teacher in front before the VHS player started up. Someone in the classroom coughed, and Stan rolled his eyes. The irony of Rick’s question was not lost on him.

 

     “Saturday,” He continued, voice hushed as much as he could so the other boy could hear. Rick stopped drawing. When he looked up, his expression was manic, and his mouth quirked into a huge grin that Stan only saw for a moment before someone switched the lights off in the classroom.

 

     “Well well well well—,” Rick started, and several more shushes were heard, as well as a few laughs. When the teacher looked up, he didn’t look as annoyed. He just looked bored.

 

     “Stanley Pines and Rick Sanchez, if you continue to talk during my class period I’ll be seeing you in detention here after school.” The VCR buzzed before going black. When the movie started, the sound of the documentary was warped and fuzzy, and the back of the classroom was illuminated by the light of the television in the front. Two girls sitting by the window whispered to each other and laughed silently until it the sound of it trailed off. Stan wanted to leave. He hadn’t been to Biology in a week, and whatever the movie they were watching was talking about he was completely lost on. It was viruses. Something to do with viruses.

 

     “Pines,” He heard, and he turned his head for a moment before a small piece of looseleaf hit his cheek, making him jump. Rick snorted.

 

     Stan unfolded the paper.

 

     Rick’s handwriting was slanted and messy, a frantic attempt. All of his notes looked like they were written by someone who was certain they were writing the last words they would ever be allowed to write.

 

_your dads letting you go?_

 

     Where had Rick even gotten the paper? He didn’t even bring any notebooks or bags to class. Once Stan thought he saw him take out something from his jacket pocket that looked a little like a pen, until he realized it was a licorice twizzler.

 

     Wait. The note.

 

     Stan pulled out a pencil from his pocket and wrote back quickly, folding the note up again before managing a brief glance over to their teacher, who was sitting at his desk in the front reading a magazine.

 

     He threw the paper over, watching Rick catch it with ease and unfold it. Stan couldn’t see what his face looked like in the dark. Shadows crossed his features from the documentary in the front, projecting shapes on to his pale complexion. Something on the screen went bright, and he could see for a millisecond that Rick was frowning, his eyes cast low. It felt like something sinking in Stan’s chest, and it was a hollow emotion. He could see his eyes skim the paper quickly.

 

_no i didnt tell him i got ford to cover for me_

 

     When Rick turned his head to stare at the other boy, he raised his eyebrows, and smiled in a predatory way. The noise of the Bio tape, distorted by its age, droned on in the background of the wordless conversation they seemed to be having. Rick’s teeth seemed to gleam white in the dark, and it made Stan feel not quite nervous, but not settled, either.

 

_This viral ability to mutate is responsible for the attribute of some viruses to change slightly in each infected person, making treatment difficult._

 

Rick's note back was short, but it made Stan's stomach drop anyway, acutely aware of the clock ticking away hanging above the door.

     

      _get ready to get fucking wrecked >:)_

 

 


	4. The October Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U THOUGHT!!! U THOUGHT!!!!!!!!
> 
> enough people commented on this that i actually felt bad leaving it unfinished, especially considering the fact that i have the ending written, just not some chunks in the middle. what's posted now is like.. maybe even just half of what's sitting untouched in my google docs re: gutterpunk_bs.docx. 
> 
> but A REALLY IMPORTANT NOTE is that i wrote this interlude chapter just to get back into the swing of writing this fic!!!!!-- it had been a minute and I'm actually in the middle of writing my own non-fic book, and in that one no one is swearing nearly as much as rick does here and the characters are definitely drinking less lmao. so if is reads a little clunky.. sorry abt that :'D but I feel like i've got a handle back on it now, and next chapter will be the philadelphia chapter.
> 
> i can't promise the next update until sometime a little before halloween though, because i'm moving this week!
> 
> ok these are some long ass notes lets wrap it up uhhh the songs for this chapter. would you guys want me to post my playlist for this fic? it is extensive but i actually really like it so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in.
> 
> all this shit is just. my halloweens. speaker to roof hookup included. im a hack
> 
> anyways. thanks so much for reading after all this time!! wurms me heart

It was Halloween, and Stan’s stomach was killing him.

 

In all honesty, it hadn’t been his original plan to drink that night, but he’d been in the Circle K picking up some shit for his Mom, and he’d noticed that the owner of the convenience store was working the register instead of the cashier that normally glared at him from behind the counter. Stan knew a chance to take advantage of early onset cataracts when he saw one. He could hold up a poptart and the guy would probably nod at it like it was his ID. Stan was tall for his age, and the truth of the matter was that some people just didn’t want to admit they were sick.

 

He didn’t plan the funds for a booze excursion, though, so he ended up sitting in the driver's seat of the Stanleymobile on the drive home, listening to the fuzzy hum of the radio and buzzed off the shittiest beer known to mankind: Natty Lite. Day turned to night, and he’d ended up sneaking cans of them squeezed between the couch and the wall while Ford and him had sat in the livingroom, spending the evening watching horror movie after horror movie on the stolen cable that ran through cord in the neighbor’s wall. Sometime between Texas Chainsaw and Scream, Stan was about three Natty Lites in, and the combination of the beers with the full bag of stale candy corn he’d eaten earlier was not sitting well in his stomach at all. He’d move to go crack open a new beer when he was certain only Ford was watching. They’d sit in front of the set for hours, talking about monsters and laughing, watching their Mom walk from the door and back again for trick or treaters, Shermy propped up on her hip in the most atrocious duck costume the twins had ever seen. Their Mom loved halloween. Every year, she’d deck out the whole store on the first floor in decorations, and scare the shit out of any of the neighbor kids who came to the door for candy. This year, she’d coated the whole front door in fake blood, plastic spiders stuck up in fake green cobwebs spun like cotton candy. It looked totally wicked.

 

Ford was tired from staying up the night before to study for a physics exam, though, so sometime soon after Carrie began destroying a perfectly regular prom, her hair dripping with pig’s blood, Stan felt his brother slump up against the couch, and fall asleep.

 

He didn’t mind that much. The trick or treaters had started to thin out, anyway. Stan had the good sense to pull his twin’s glasses carefully off of his face and throw blanket over him before he called out into the kitchen.

 

“Ma! ‘M goin’ out!”

 

“What?” Her accent was thick as crisco when he heard her response from the bedroom.

 

“I’m going out!” He yelled again, flipping the couch cushion up next to him to look for his keys.

 

“Stanley, it’s late!” She yelled as he tugged his shoes on. Ford shifted on the couch and mumbled something.

 

He couldn’t stay. He was restless. The beers were making his head swim, and he knew if he tried to sleep now, he’d be rolling around for hours. There was one person he wanted to see tonight, and he was done pretending he wasn’t thinking about it.

 

“I’ll be back before midnight!” He called, and didn’t wait to hear her response. He stepped out the front door into the cool autumn air, pulling his jacket on around him as he walked down the steps, and tugged his collar up against the darkening night.

 

The car took three tries to start up. When the engine finally roared to life, Stan could see a black puff of smoke come coughing out of the exhaust pipe in the rearview, and he pat the dash where the car stereo was, marked up and scuffed from all the times Rick had put his filthy combat boots up onto the dash when he sat in the passenger’s seat.

 

“Alright, sweetheart,” He said, and twisted the knob to bring the radio to life before lurching forwards down the block.

  


 

 

.

 

 

 

 

The lights were off in the Sanchez house when Stan pulled up front, which made him frown up at the dark window he knew was Rick’s bedroom. He shoved the gearshift into park, and the car made a garbled, sudden motion before shuddering and going still, the screech of the front belt an echo for only a second as the whole thing laid itself to rest.

 

That goddamn front belt. It was going to go out any day now.

 

The October night was chilly. Stan climbed out of the car and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, slamming the car door with his heel. Two kids, dressed as both superman and shittier superman respectively, screeched as they shoved past him to run down the block, grabbing at the pillowcases that held their candy. Other houses on the street glowed with orange lights and decorations, someone laughing far down the street fading over to where Stan stood at the end of the cul de sac.

 

The Sanchez house had no decorations at all. Its dark, wooden exterior loomed over the street just as frighteningly as it did the rest of the days of the year, the rickety porch and shitty lawn imposing the opposite of a welcome on its viewers. If Rick’s house could talk, it would say, “ _Sal de la mierda_.” Stan smiled a little to himself, and then stopped. _Fuck_. He really was kind of drunk.

 

The metal fence creaked. He took one step onto the concrete of the front walk, and stopped.

 

Something in the bushes was making a noise.

 

Stan had barely heard it at first. But the groan of it grew louder then, a low, hurting sound, like some kind of wounded creature had crawled into the brush by the fence and lay dying. Chills ran down Stan’s neck and across his arms, goosebumps prickling his skin. Stan didn’t do well with hurt things. He didn’t like blood all that much, either.

 

“Uh,” He said, and walked carefully towards the bushes. Worse case scenarios flashed in his mind, Jamie Lee Curtis’ screaming face echoing in the back of his head from a few hours before. His stomach had filled with lead, and Stan’s vision swayed, the stress of it bringing the taste of the beer back up to his throat.

 

The sound tapered off. Silence fell around him.

 

Stan could hear blood rushing in his ears. His feet were frozen to the ground. Fuck. Fuck. If he could just— if there was some way—

 

“ _STAN PINES_!!”

 

The sound of it was like a gunshot. Stan jumped so high in the air he understood why people’s shoes flew off their feet in cartoons. There was cackling now, the initial noise of it ringing brightly in Stan’s ears, and when he recovered from the shock, he nearly saw red.

 

The bushes. He grabbed at the leaves and pulled back, only to find himself staring down at the black rectangular shape of an old, beat up amp. The orange extension cord stuck into it disappeared around the rest of the overgrown garden, but Stan squinted through the night, following the way it twisted all the way up the house, and on top of the roof,  where a dark shape was rolling around on the asphalt tiles.

 

“Holy Christ!” He heard through the speaker, Rick’s voice laughing manic and pleased. “You jumped about a foot in the air! I can see the piss in your pants from up here.”

 

“You’re shitting me,” Stan said in awe, looking from the amp to the roof where Rick sat. A mic. He was holding a mic attached to a speaker. This is what Rick had been doing for halloween. Scaring the fuck out of the neighborhood kids who dared to approach the house.

 

“Come on up, okay?” Rick called gleefully. “The front door’s open, you can climb through the bathroom window.”

 

Stan would have been irritated if he wasn’t so impressed. His ears were still ringing, though, and he wasn’t sure it was from the scare anymore. “I’m coming up there to kick your skinny ass, Sanchez!” He yelled. Rick’s voice came out through the grainy amp in a low, raspy huff.

 

“I’d like to see you try.”

  
  
  


The bathroom window was already wide open when Stan made his way up the stairs and onto the second floor landing. He had to climb up over the radiator, which was freezing cold to the touch, before he could pull himself through the frame, splinters prickling at his fingers and the edge of the window digging into his gut. When he finally managed to pull himself out of the house, he rolled over onto his back against the cold black tiles of the roof, and huffed out a winded, “Goddammit. Fuck.”

 

Stan could make out about 3 stars through the barren tree branches before Rick leaned over him.

 

“Happy Halloween,” He said, and grinned wide and crooked.  


Stan huffed out a laugh and rolled over.  “You’re stoned.” The buzz was still vibrating in the back of his head, and he sat up to reach for what he could make out to be a bag of red vines in the dark tossed between the two of them on the roof.

 

“No s-sexy maid costume?” Rick asked. Stan flipped him the bird.

 

“Get bent, Sanchez. Fuck’re you supposed to be anyways, Speedy Gonzolas?” He mumbled through the licorice, and Rick screeched with laughter so loudly Stan was scared for a moment he’d slip and fall off the roof. He could tell- Rick was off his ass. His face was flushed from the cold, and Stan couldn’t see through the dark, but he would bet if the streetlights below were a little brighter, he would be able to make out the red in Rick’s eyes. His dark haired peaked out of his hoodie at odd angles, messed up from the fall breeze that pushed through the trees and the night.

 

“Glad you showed, Pines,” He said, and looked at him for a moment, a quick second of eye contact, before turning to dig around in his pocket for something. “Was getting pretty boring around here til you crawled through that window.”

 

“Ford passed out on me before we could get to Friday the 13th,” Stan said, smiling and rubbing the back of his neck. Normally they were up until early morning binging horror flicks. Rick rolled his eyes, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes materializing from his hoodie. He turned his head toward the other boy again, side-eyeing him with something like genuine surprise. There was a pregnant pause.

 

“Dude, are you drunk?” He asked, and it was Stan’s turn to laugh. It echoed down into the trees below them, and Rick turned to him fully then, a smile beginning to form on his face.

 

“Holy shit!” He exclaimed. “You totally are! I thought you were fucking sitting at home, braiding Ford’s hair and carving pumpkins like the goddamn Brady Bunch!”

 

“I was drinking brews behind the couch,” He laughed, and Rick cracked up with him before pausing to ask,

 

“Did you bring any for me, then?”

 

He had, actually. Stan pulled the last can of booze out from his jacket pocket and held it out to Rick wordlessly, whose eyes lit up at the sight of it.

 

“Trick or fucking treat!” He rasped, and snatched it quickly, the ciggies and lighter abandoned. “Here, gimme your keys.”

 

Stan knew he was doing it to impress him. He didn’t care. He held out the car keys carelessly, watching Rick stab into the bottom of the can. Beer exploded over his hands, dripping down his fingers and onto the roof, and Stan watched as Rick raised the aluminum up to his lips, tilting his head back and cracking the tab open at the top of the can, the muscles in his throat moving in his pale neck as he downed the drink. Heat flooded Stan’s cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the buzz.   

 

It didn’t last long. After around thirty seconds or so, Rick pulled the beer away from his face wearing an expression nothing short of grim resignation. His mouth was red and swollen and beer was still pouring out of the can.

 

“Tilt it on it’s side!” Stan said, but he was cracking up at the mess, and Rick sputtering and choking through the alcohol.

 

“This is fucking— y-you brought me Natty Light!” He rasped. “You brought me c-c-carbonated piss, Pines!”

 

“You’re getting it everywhere,” Stan laughed, and then stopped and said wide eyed, “Oh fuck— Rick, the mic, you’re getting beer all over the mic.”

 

“What? Oh, _motherfucker_!!”

 

.

  
  
  


.

  
  
  
  


.

 

When Stan was little, Ford and him used to dress up like pirates every year, eye patches and hook hands and all. They had a solid four year streak going before Stan decided he wanted to stop dressing up at all. He hadn’t thought Ford had minded all that much. They’d been bullied for smaller things. In highschool, with Stan’s reputation and Ford’s lack of one, they figured they didn’t need to give anyone another reason to pick on them. The movies were a replacement— that was Stan’s idea. Plus, sometimes he thought Ford had a weird thing for Carrie, weird anomalies and 70’s gym outfits. He could never be sure.

 

Rick had cracked open the guts of the drenched mic and was picking at them minutely in the dark. Every few minutes, he would mumble something Stan couldn’t understand, frustrated and interested all at the same time. Stan risked a look over his shoulder.

 

“You figure it’s trashed?”

 

Rick shook his head. “Nah, I can fix it. I mean, it was a piece of shit before this. Now it’s just a piece of shit soaked in crappy booze.” He squinted down at the mic, the mechanical innards of it open in his palm. “Fuck if I can see well enough to Mcguyver this fucker, though. Pull the wire up a little more.”

 

Stan tugged at the chord from where it was trailing up through the trees, and turned back to stare. When Rick was really focused on something, he chewed at his bottom lip until it bled. It was a habit reserved for shoplifting and rolling joints, and Stan liked that he noticed, that there was something small and personal that maybe only he knew about aside from everyone else that Rick interacted with on a daily basis. To tell the truth, Stan had never really been sure what Rick did when Stan wasn’t around. He didn’t have anyone like Ford. Noa was the only other person in the Sanchez house besides Rick’s Mom and her boyfriend, and on the rare occasion Stan would see them in passing, walking through the halls to leave Rick’s room or get to Rick’s room, he would stare at them both a lot like you’d stare at a crash on the freeway, concerned and apprehensive but eager to drive away. But the other thing was about Rick was stranger.

 

“Sometimes I forget,” He mumbled, and Rick turned to look at him carefully.

 

“Forget what?” The question was genuine. It made Stan smile.

 

“You’re smart. Smarter than Ford, sometimes,” he said, and pulled on the mic wire through the branches. “What’re you doing, messing around with me when you got all those brains in your head.”

 

“You think I’d rather be hanging out with your brother?” Rick said incredulously, and laughed. “Is that a joke? Falling asleep on a Friday at 10pm like I’m retired?”

 

“That’s not what I—,” Stan started to explain, but Rick rolled his eyes and turned back to the mic, distracted by the guts of it.

 

“C’mon, Pines,” He said. “Don’t think ‘cause I got a brain I wanna be rotting in a think tank somewhere with some old asshole asking me about calculus theorems or what the fuck have you. Does that even sound like me? I’d rather be on this roof scaring the shit out of the neighbors with you than doing that.”

 

With you. Stan swayed on the shingles, digging the tips of his fingers into the asphalt of them, and stared out into the purple of the sky where the light pollution of Philadelphia glowed in the distance.

 

“‘Sides, I don’t think your brother would be very interested in getting smoked out and then sucking face,” Rick said casually, and Stan nearly jolted off of the landing.

 

“Rick!” He hissed, looking down at the sidewalk below them. No one stood near the house.

 

“Chill out,” Rick said. “No one heard. The mic’s not fixed yet. Don’t be such a pussy.”

 

Stan froze. Rick didn’t say anything else, the task distracting him, but the air between them changed very suddenly, and Stan turned his head to glare at the other boy with a degree that seemed to wipe out his laughter from earlier. “Don’t call me that.”

 

The buzzing from the amp on the ground flickered once, and then stopped. Rick swore.

 

“Rick,” Stan said, annoyed. “I said, _don’t call me that_.”

 

“Yeah, well maybe stop acting like one and I won’t have to call a spade a spade,” Rick mumbled, distracted.

 

Anger rose up in his stomach like bile, and without even thinking, he leaned across the roof and yanked the cord as hard as he could away from Rick, who was caught so off-guard by the action, he didn’t even make an attempt to grab it back.

 

Stan held the mic for less than a second. Then he raised his arm high, and flung the thing into the trees below them.

 

“Stan!” Rick said in surprise. He whirled his head around to face the other boy angrily. “Are you fucking joking? What the hell is your damage! The fuck did you go and do that for?”

 

“Because you were being an asshole!” Stan argued. Rick made a high, frustrated noise.

 

“What do you want me to say! It was just a joke, alright?”

 

“It sure didn’t sound like one.”

 

“Yeah, _because you were really being a pussy._ ”

 

“Why are you being such an asshole about this??”

 

Rick didn’t say anything. He was looking at Stan now very seriously, all of the jokes from earlier seeming to have dissipated in the cool night air, and nothing about his expression seemed to indicate he was very impressed with what he was seeing at all.

 

The quiet between them was tense.

 

“Look,” Stan forced out. The mood changed, all at once. “I’m not— afraid, alright?”

 

“Yeah?” Rick challenged, and when he raised his eyebrows, his eyes were bright, but still. Stan’s fingers were fidgeting against his jeans, and he could feel the blush crawling up his neck, slow and real.

 

“Yeah,” He said hoarsely. No one else was on the street below. No one was in front of the house.

 

Rick leaned forwards.

 

“Prove it.”

 

For a moment, it was only quiet. There was no noise from the neighborhood. Stan could only smell the beer on Rick’s breath, and the way he looked so daring and angry and pleased in the dark.

 

“What do you want, Pines?” Rick asked. His voice was so quiet, Stan barely heard what he’d said. “What do you want?”

 

Stan kissed him.

 

Maybe it was the booze. He just didn’t care, for that second. He closed the space between them so desperately he was almost embarrassed by it, kissing Rick’s cold lips and grabbing at his hip, bony and flannel clad under his black sweatshirt.

 

Rick kissed back like he’d been waiting for it since the second Stan had crawled through the window. He grinned into it like he’d won something, and then bit at Stan’s mouth, hard enough to draw blood. It sent a shock through Stan like a panic, and he shivered, but didn’t break away until he felt like he had to, taking quick breaths and fleeting looks over the edge of the house to make sure no one was looking, praying that Rick didn’t notice.

 

“Thought you weren’t scared,” He heard the other boy murmur as he dragged his mouth across the edge of Stan’s jaw, and Stan made a low, embarrassing noise. When he spoke, his voice walked the line between stubbornness and desperation, and he tilted his head up so that Rick could leave slow, open kisses down his neck.

 

“I’m not,” He said. Tomorrow he would deny all of this, but Rick was marking up his collarbone with hickeys, and Stan felt like if he jumped off the roof, he might float away. He spilled his guts like he was in a confessional. “I thought about you— all the way over here. My Dad’s gonna beat my ass when I get home for being out past midnight and I still came over ‘cause I wanted to see you.”

 

He felt Rick stop, roll his eyes. “Christ Stan, how much did you drink,” He mumbled, but his face was flushed red, and he buried his face into Stan’s shoulder, muttering something unintelligible into his skin.

 

“What?” Stan said, coming back down to earth for a second.

 

“I said I was thinking about you t-too,” He muttered, and Stan’s pulse jumped.

 

“Yeah?” He said quietly, and he felt Rick nod against him, his arm wrapped around Stan as if to reach behind him.

 

“Stan,” He said, and put his mouth right up to Stan’s throat. “Listen. You should know somethin’ else.”

 

Stan swallowed hard. “What is it?”

 

“You should know,” Rick murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his teeth brush up against Stan’s skin when he spoke.

 

Oddly enough, it took Stan a second to realize what he was feeling. The sensation of it was so out of place, he paused just so it could process.

 

It was lukewarm beer pouring down his back. Rick had reached around him and was dumping the leftovers of the abandoned shotgunned Natty Light down between his jacket and his t shirt.  

 

“Motherfucker!” Stan yelped, and jumped away, clawing at his clothes. “ _Rick_!”

 

“You should know not to throw my sound equipment into the _fucking_ trees!” Rick hollered, and howled with laughter like the world’s most dickish hyena, gasping for air while Stan grabbed at his back to rip the soaked jacket off and shook his arms out to dry.

 

“You’re the fucking antichrist. You’re evil.” Rick grinned, wide and feral, and raised the empty beer can like he was making a toast.

 

“Then welcome to hell, b— ,” he belched, “Babyyy.”

 

“We’re even now, okay?” Stan demanded. “We’re fucking even.” Rick held up his hands in surrender.

 

The leaves around them rustled quietly as the breeze dragged through them. As strangely as they had arrived in that moment, they now sat on the roof in a comfortable silence, the smell of smashed pumpkins rising up from the street to greet them, the mic forgotten.

 

Stan could feel Rick staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew the other boy liked to pretend he never did, but Stan knew. He figured after all these months— he knew.

 

“You really wanted to see me that bad, huh?” Rick asked, and Stan looked away towards the trees, down the rows of street lights that stretched out into the dark.

 

“Don’t make it weird, Sanchez,” He said, and he didn’t need to look to see that Rick was smiling.

  
  



End file.
